“Let me be the slave and you be Aspasia!”
The artist bristled with anger.
“The young lady has been chosen because Professor Helbig, the first archeologist in Rome, holds that Aspasia should be represented by one of her type.”
I was out of my depth and offered no more suggestions. The artist went on with his lecture:
“Signor Tale, the hairdresser of her Majesty the Queen, will make some studies from statues at the Vatican for the coiffure. He will first call upon the young lady, to become familiar with her type.”
Signor Tale, looking more like a prince than a hairdresser, called to observe my type; called again with half a dozen careful pencil drawings and measured my head for the golden net he would construct to bind over the blue fillet which must match the mantle. Rehearsals in hairdressing followed until both artists were satisfied.
My aunt took me to her friend, Mme. Ristori, to consult about the mantle.
“It is important it should be correct!” the great actress agreed. She called her daughter, the lovely Bianca Capranica.
“Ask my woman to bring the blue and gold mantle I wear as Phedra. That will satisfy even a German archeologue.”
On the Royal birthday, the cast assembled at the embassy. Mme. Ristori, dressed as Clio, the Muse of History, opened the evening with a recitation. She had not long retired from the stage; her majestic presence, her wonderful deep voice, her classic face, thrilled her audience, as I had known them thrill American audiences in “Marie Stuart” or in “Lucrezia Borgia.” I was still under the spell of her grand manner when she came to oversee the draping of her mantle on my shoulders. She called for a needle and thread and came towards me with a look so dramatic that I trembled; the needle might have been a dagger from the intensity of her face and gesture. She herself took the necessary stitch to stay the mantle’s folds upon my shoulder; as she left me to take my pose she whispered: